Monday, January 31, 2011

How I got my First Science Fiction Magazine

Many years ago--never mind how many--I came across my first science fiction/fantasy magazine. It had been wrapped up with a lot of other magazines in stout wire and deposited at five AM in front of a drug store in San Francisco.
Now at that time I was a paper boy with wire cutters--our papers were delivered in wire bundles.
The covers of the pulp magazines back then were quite enticing to an eleven year old boy. I grabbed one stuffed it into my paper bag and read it later. Too my great disappointment the contents did not match the cover.
But hope springs eternal in a young boy’s breast so I tried it again next month. A strange thing happened. I got to liking the stories.
The third month I actual paid for the magazine.
Now decades later I have traveled with Conan, laughed with Fhfard and the Gray Mouser, Rode Jordan’s wheel of time, De Camped from one universe to the next, and kept an eye out for Boskone.
My children are grown now and I have misplaced my wire cutters but I have a computer. Maybe I can entice a few young men, and women, into a universe were the good guys win.
So different from ours

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Part 2 -- A Global Warning Part (continued)

Of course it was a little late for that. I'd already drunk my usual breakfast, a couple of Bloody Marys. The night before, Bob and I had closed the NCO club, doing our best to make sure they didn't have any open bottles or barrels of beer to go flat."

"Barrels of beer don't go flat."

"Not when I'm around they don't."

"I had only three hours sleep," KC continued, "and felt woozy. We were in the old town, doing some last minute shopping. About noon, just as the sun became unmercifully hot, Bob and I came across one of those little shops that sell everything from camel saddles to brass plates. Bob wanted a camel saddle, I wanted out of the sun."



I stared into my beer, remembering that day. I had been waiting for them--or someone like them--for a long time. I was stuck in one spot, but I knew what was going on in the world. For years I had been watching TV trying to decide which was funnier, the sitcoms or the news. However, boredom had set in decades ago, so I was ready when they staggered into the small shop with all the grace of two ruptured camels dying of thirst. KC had smelled like one, too.

Mehdi, the twenty year old son of the owner, hurried from the back of the store, throwing aside the curtain that separated the junk in the front from the treasures in the rear.

As soon as Bob stepped inside, his gaze locked on a white camel saddle on the counter. From the back of the store I could see that KC's gaze was marvelously unfocussed. I decided it was time to make my move.

Bob began the tourist dance, pointing at the camel saddle, raising an eyebrow, then holding up his wallet, asking in pantomime, "How much?"

"Twenty-five dollars, American, "Mehdi said.

Ah, the advantages of a university education. Mehdi was bright and, best of all, sure he knew more than his father. Right now his father was sitting in a coffee house down the street, complaining to his cronies that his over-educated son was forgetting the old ways. Which was just fine with me. I had always found the old ways too confining.

"You speak English?" Bob regarded the young man with the same open-mouthed surprise a child displays at the sight of his first giraffe.

"What's that?" KC interrupted, pointing at the bottle in the back of the other room.

"Just and old . . . ." Mendi stopped as I mentally clobbered him. He peered at KC. In a flash I could see the rug unrolling, the young man's white shirt and tie disappearing, and a robed merchant seating himself in front of the customer. Mehdi may have been going to the university, but there was a thousand years of trader packed into his genes. "Just an old and very, very valuable antique, my friend. A jar dating from the time of the first caliph."

KC strained forward, trying to see past the Seal of Solomon and through the amber glass. "How much does something like that cost?"

Normally Mehdi knew better than to try to sell the bottle, but I was in control now, and all thoughts of what his father might do disappeared. "Five hundred dollars," he said.

KC straightened. "Too much. I'll give you twenty-five dollars."

Mehdi laughed and I felt insulted.

Then Mehdi scratched his chin and peered at KC. "Since you are a warrior that soon will be going into battle, perhaps I could come down a little--say to four hundred and fifty."

Now it was KC's turn to laugh.

I leaned on them both pretty hard, but it still took fifteen minutes to settle on an amount, one hundred dollars. And Mehdi had to throw in the white leather camel saddle.

At my silent urging, KC took the bottle and pulled the cork.

That was all I needed.

Deep in the earth and far to the east, I set off a great rumbling. It thundered toward the shop like a fast moving avalanche, getting louder as it came. The three of them shot to their feet, stared at each other, opened their mouths, but before they could say a word the sound was inside, all around them.

Now the building shook, now it swayed, now the shop seemed to roll and spin, caught in some monstrous wave. They staggered as they were ripped from their safe, smug, little reality into my very strange, wine-dark sea. Green smoke boiled from the bottle and filled the shop. The front door crashed open and the hot desert wind blew straight in, tearing the rolling smoke to tatters. Just before it disappeared, I materialized from the bottle, spread my leather wings until they brushed the ceiling, extended razor edged claws, bent down, and grinned at KC with teeth filed to sharp points.

Part One -- A GLOBAL WARNING By Walter Golden

GLOBAL WARNING
Though I drink more than I should, I'm not much of a drinker, so that isn't what drove me to take shelter in this particular bar on a rainy, North Carolina night. It was my unfinished business with Smith, and maybe, just maybe, it was a compulsion to be near my old home.
I grinned at that thought. Once that had involved a very real compulsion.
I walked in, casually flicked the rain from my claws, and headed for the bar, secure in the knowledge that no one would notice me. Just like the hero of the old radio program, The Shadow, I had the power to cloud men's minds.
If you know where to look, you can find a bar like this near any large military base. They're always off the beaten track. Sometimes they're in a warehouse district, sometimes down a back alley, occasionally on a dead end street. There may not even be a sign outside--but then they are not looking for the walk-in trade.
In France the bars are for the Legion, in England, for the Royal Marines. The Russians have gathering spots sfor their Spetsnaz, and the Americans have theirs for the Special Forces.
And in all of them, civilians are never welcome.
The Legion throws them out, the British insist they leave, the Americans pretend they don't exise, and the Russians stick them with the bar bill.
Of course my kind stop by any damn time we want.
This was a Rangers' watering hole and normally crowded, but not tonight; only one of the four pool tables was in use. The Rangers had returned from the Gulf last week and most of them were home trying to remember how to reconnect with their families.
The place was a typical elite troop hideaway. Willie Nelson was on the jukebox, a picture of John Wayne was tacked beside the cash register, and over the door hung crossed American and unit flags.
I took a seat at the far end of the chipped mahogany bar next to a large man with chevrons on his sleeves. As I expected, the owner of the place, my old friend, Keith C. Smith, was a bartender. A short man with a clean white shirt the color of his thinning hair, KC moved with the relaxed grace of a martial arts expert. The rolled-up sleeves showed firm muscles. And he was sober. That was a change from the last time I'd seen him. He must have taken my money and retired from the service. From the looks of it, retirement suited him.
But I'd fix that.
I grinned, showing sharp teeth. Naturally, KC didn't really see them, and he didn't question my right to be here. To him I looked like someone he had once met, but whose name he had forgotten. KC nodded politely and started to set down a frosty stein of beer. Suddently, f rom the far end of the room came the sound of glasses crashing to the floor. Grinning wider, I watched KC wince and almost spilled my beer.
"Bob, you butterfingered idiot, " KC muttered. "I wish to hell I'd shot you years ago.
I didn't say a word. Somehow Bob's subconscious had warned him that I had entered the bar. I have that effect on the poor man. I glanced at the b roken bottle with a long neck and etched with the Seal of Solomon, sitting on the shelf above the cash register. More of Bob's work--and in my opinion--his very best.
Someone had painstakingly glued most of it back together, but, naturally, there was still a small piece missing from the two-foot tall, amber bottle.
"Don't be so hard on the boy," the sergeant next to me told KC. I nodded my agreement, but KC didn't notice.
Instead, he glared at the soldier as if trying to make up his mind about something. Then he turned, reached under the cash register, and poured himself a straight shot from the bottle on the bottom shelf. He downed it in one gulp and poured himself another.
"Phil," he said to the sergeaqnt, "I wasn't kidding. I should have shot Bob two days before we hit the sand in Iraq."
I wouldn't have like that, but maybe I could have worked around it.
KC took another sip of whiskey, rolled it around in his mouth, swallowed and sighed. "For a long time I've wanted to tell someone my story, but if I had tried while I was in the service, they'd have had me out the gate and on the street with a section eight discharge. Hell, you won't believe me anymore than they woul. Just chalk up the weirdness to the whiskey."
"And mighty fine shiskey it looks to be, " Phil said, staring at the bottle.
KC took the pointed hint and poured the sergeant a glass. He looked at me, but I shook my head. Like I said, I'm not much of a drinker.
"We were on R and R in Kuwait City, " KC said. "It was the day before the curtain went up. We didn't know anything official, but the captain told us to stay sober.
TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR THE NEXT EPISODE

WILL THE REAL WALTER GOLDEN PLEASE STAND UP. . .

I was asked to write a description of myself for my readers. That is not an easy task, but here is what I offer. . .


Many years ago--never mind how many--I came across my first science fiction/fantasy magazine. It had been wrapped up with a lot of other magazines in stout wire and deposited at five AM in front of a drug store in San Francisco.

Now, at that time, I was a paperboy with wire cutters--our papers were delivered in wired bundles.

The covers of the pulp magazines back then were quite enticing to an eleven year old boy. I grabbed one, stuffed it into my paper bag and took it with me to read later. Too my great disappointment the contents did not match the cover.

But hope springs eternal in a young boy's breast so I tried it again the next month. A strange thing happened. I got to liking the stories.

The third month I started actually paying for the magazines I claimed for my collection.

Now, decades later, I have traveled with Conan, laughed with Fhfard and the Gray Mouser, rode Jordan's wheel of time, DeCamped from one universe to the next, and kept an eye out for Boskone.

My children are grown now and I have misplaced my wire cutters but I have a computer. Maybe I can entice a few young men, and women, into a universe where the good guys win.

So different from ours.